5 Minutes
by Caitlyn Rose
Summary: One day in the life of Henry and Elizabeth, told in 5 minute intervals.


_A/N: I wrote a story based on the same concept for a different pairing a while back, and thought it might be fun to do for Henry and Elizabeth too. Started this so long ago that it now might be a bit out of date in terms of kids ages/ Henry's job etc - but hope you enjoy nonetheless._

* * *

 **6:10 AM - 6:15 AM**

Alarms on both nightstands beep simultaneously and, like mirror images of one another, Henry and Elizabeth each reach out an arm blindly.

Once the basic need to _make it stop_ has been taken care of, Henry turns instinctively and curls into Elizabeth. Slinging one arm across her middle, he pulls her against him lazily, his hand splayed against warm skin where her shirt has ridden up in the night.

"Morning," he mumbles, his lips brushing against her bare shoulder.

She groans almost imperceptibly in reply.

"Good morning," she manages sleepily, and Henry's glad. Some mornings, he can tell that when he wakes, she's just been lying staring at the ceiling for hours.

She wriggles, turning in his arms and burrowing her head into his chest.

"Hi," she says against the worn cotton of his shirt.

He hugs her close. "Hi," he replies, and then, a second later, with as much energy as he can muster:

"So…what's on your agenda today?"

"Mmm, you know. Meeting with the Italian ambassador, meeting with the Portuguese ambassador, meeting at the White House. Just, a lot of meeting people."

"Hey you know what, I'm doing this afternoon, though?" Elizabeth adds after a moment, her tone brightening as she cranes her neck to look up at him.

"What?"

"I'm leaving the office _two hours early_. To go _get my hair done_. I know. Radical, right?" she smiles self-deprecatingly. "How about you? War College or White House today?"

"War College," he replies, and Elizabeth lets her head loll against his chest again, soothed by the sound of his voice as he proceeds to tell her this and that about his day ahead.

They didn't always have this routine. When the kids were small, the idea of having any time whatsoever in the morning that was not dedicated purely to organizational battles and general crisis aversion would have struck both of them as a luxury too decadent even to wish for. And then the kids grew up a little; became capable of pouring their own cereal and making their way to buses largely unscathed. But by that point, Elizabeth and Henry had pretty regular lunches together. The occasional afternoon coffee or quickie. And, come 6:30pm, chances were good they'd both be in the kitchen helping with homeworks and rustling up dinner. With time together not exactly in short supply, neither would have thought to carve out some more of it in the pre-dawn hours.

Then, of course, came the State Department, and the succession of acronyms that have constituted Henry's unmentionable side gigs, and that's when they made the agreement.

Every morning. Before coffee sloshed into travel mugs, and days at work that could stretch into nights - just him and her, and five minutes. To talk or plan or kiss or listen to each other's breathing.

Just, five minutes.

—

 **7:17 AM - 7:22 AM**

Already this morning, Elizabeth has fielded two calls from pretty disgruntled people and - as she comes down the stairs, cell phone still in hand - the situation in her own kitchen doesn't seem to be much better.

Some sort of minor dispute would appear to have arisen between Jason and Ali, based - from what she can gather - on the car and who might be its most deserving custodian today. Cases are being made, and Henry's mediating - even-handedly as ever - while smearing cream cheese on a bagel. Jason, upon seeing his mother, thrusts a permission from in her general direction.

"What is this?" she asks, peering down at it.

"You just have to sign it," he says, turning back to speak to his sister, but experience has taught Elizabeth that _just signing_ things, especially when it comes to her youngest child, is a fool's game. She brings the document closer, struggling a little without her glasses.

"I have my showcase today - which is probably going to be a disaster anyway," Alison is saying now. "And I have so much stuff, there's no way I can manage it all without a car. Like, it's just not doable. Do you have _any idea_ the stress that I'm under?"

"That's _totally_ unfair," Jason replies, "I told you _two days ago_ that I needed the car because Shawn's parents are away and I said I'd pick him up. If you can't remember stuff then -"

"Ugghhh," Alison interrupts - her frustration born, Elizabeth would hazard a guess, from the recollection that her brother _had_ in fact conveyed this information to her in advance. " _Fine_. If we leave in, like, the next five minutes, I can drop you on the way - and your little friend - but that's honestly the best I can offer you. Otherwise you're both on the bus, which, by the way, I'm not sure what the big crisis would be with that. Dad will you tell him?"

Henry looks up. "If you can give the boys a ride, I think that sounds like a perfect solution, Ali" he says mildly. "Jase, why don't you go get your stuff."

For the first time, he seems to notice his wife's presence in the room, and the two of them share a silent smile/ eye roll at the morning's antics as she comes over beside him, riffling through a drawer for a pen.

Elizabeth's in fairly typical work attire of dress pants and a cream blouse, but Henry can see the faint outline of the black bra she's worn underneath the shirt. She does that sometimes, and he's not sure if it's by choice or accident, but it always strikes him as the hottest thing.

By way of conveying this sentiment - or some version of it - in their current setting, he pulls her to him, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"You look good," he says simply, quietly, and Elizabeth unconsciously lets her eyes close for just a second.

"Mmm, thanks. You smell good."

"Everybody looks and smells great," Alison interrupts, all sarcasm. "Can we focus for a second?"

"Yeah, mom, seriously, can you just sign my form? I have to go."

—

 **11:42am - 11:47am**

At his desk at the War College, Henry puts down the landline and shuffles some debris around to locate his cellphone. With one hand, he fires off a quick message to his wife.

 _Guess what?_

Elizabeth hates texts like that - ones that tease something but reveal nothing - and it's for precisely this reason that Henry so enjoys sending them to her.

He's not expecting a response right away - sometimes it can take the two of them eight hours to exchange a few sentences - but this time, his phone pings almost immediately.

 _What?_

Henry starts to type again.

 _Jason"s school just called…_

He pauses, taking the opportunity - now that he knows she's looking at her phone - to unneccessarily drag things out a little more.

 _…Apparently they want to put him in some kind of accelerated stream for english AND math. The words "uncommonly gifted" were used._

On his tiny screen, the dots that mean Elizabeth is typing appear and Henry watches, waits.

 _Wow. So not where I thought you were going with that, I gotta say._

Then: _So, basically our kid's a genius._

 _Basically_ , he replies.

 _I like how the school didn't even TRY to call me._

He smirks, his thumbs moving quickly.

 _I guess at this point they just know I love him more._

 _You're hilarious,_ Elizabeth fires back, quick as a flash.

But Henry knows she'll be smiling. He's smiling too.

—

 **2:15pm - 2:20pm**

By 1:30, it is quite clear she isn't going to be making her hair appointment, and by 2:15, Elizabeth has reached sufficient acceptance of that fact to actually call and cancel.

The girl on the other end of the line sounds vastly more chipper than Elizabeth thinks she might ever have felt in her life - certainly more so than she's feeling at this particular moment.

"That's no problem at all, would you like to reschedule?" the girl trills cheerfully.

"Ehh," Elizabeth grimaces, attempting to mentally scroll through her schedule. "I… yeah, I would, I'm just not sure when yet - can I call you next week?"

"Sure! Thanks for calling, Mrs McCord."

And as Elizabeth hangs up the phone, she can't help the faint smile that unconsciously rises to her lips. Mrs McCord.

She doesn't get to hear that so much these days - it's all Secretary this and Secretary that - and it's a shame, she thinks, because she has just always loved the sound of it.

There was a time she would have denied it vociferously and convincingly, but in truth, she'd actually tried the name on for size in her mind a few times before she officially owned it.

She could recall having a long discussion once with her roommate Caroline about what, in principle, the idea of taking one's husband's name meant for feminism, but she personally found that, actually, she didn't particularly give a shit what it might mean for feminism. Even back then - when she was so young that the thought of being a Mrs in general felt a little preposterous - the thought of being Mrs McCord in particular always felt ….well, she couldn't explain it. Just, nice. Somehow at once the safest and most exciting thing she could imagine.

It still feels that way.

—

 **5:38pm - 5:43pm**

In the car on the way home from work, he hears Elizabeth on the radio. He's sitting in traffic, switching idly between stations, and suddenly there's her voice, as familiar to him as any sound in the world.

At this point, he's mostly used to it, but every so often, Henry still finds himself a little bit amazed to catch her on TV or on the radio, or to come upon something about her online. It's just so far from the life he would ever have predicted from her.

He actually could remember someone suggesting, back at UVA, that Elizabeth might run for student counsel president, and Henry could still see her now; sitting in their usual booth of Murphy's, beer in hand, laughing heartily as she tossed back a response in the negative. Her exact words, to the best of his recollection? _You must be out of your fucking mind._

People nosying into her business, having her picture taken, and - as she used to call it - "speechifying" were always way, _way_ down on the list of things that interested Elizabeth Adams. Or rather, the things she could even tolerate.

But despite all that, the truth, as Henry sees it, is that she has just always been the cleverest, kindest person in any given room. That she would make a wonderful leader has been obvious to him for almost 30 years, and now here she is - Secretary of State, and on the radio. He doesn't even know what she's talking about right now, and chances are good he'll catch the live version - and then some - at home tonight.

But still, he smiles, and turns her up.

—

 **7:25pm - 7:30pm**

Elizabeth has never really loved coming home to an empty house and one of the perks of her current employment - if she chooses to look at the somewhat extended working hours in such a way - is that she now very rarely does so.

This evening, by some miracle, she's managed to escape at a relatively humane hour, but is still not quite the time she (provisionally) promised her family.

"I'm home," she calls as she pushes the front door behind her, and already - as she steps out of her shoes and flings her coat in the general direction of the stand - she can hear chatter from the kitchen, and the hiss of something frying.

She's halfway there when Henry comes out to meet her.

"You're _late_ ," he says, but she knows he can't truly be annoyed because of the way he grabs her waist, pulls her pelvis against his.

"I know." She leans in to peck him on the lips, then pulls away just the slightest bit, one eyebrow quirked playfully. "How do you want me to apologise?" she asks, for his ears only.

He smirks, kisses her again. "Mmm, to be confirmed," he says, leading her into the kitchen.

—

 **8:59pm - 9:04pm**

In the study, they're each engrossed, making their way steadily through the stacks of papers on their respective desks.

It's pitch dark outside, and - Henry wagers - long past the time most people would want to be working on a Friday night.

But with the house warmly lit and cosy, and the occasional, comforting sound of the kids bustling about upstairs, he can't find too much to complain about.

He glances up at his wife, watches the familiar furrow in her brow as she taps a pen absently against her lower lip. He and Elizabeth first met sitting at adjacent desks in the small hours, and they've repeated the exercise plenty of times since then. Both of them have just always had busy, difficult jobs that - for the most part, at least - they have neither of them, for whatever crazy reason, ever really minded doing. It's kind of like the dirty little secret they've always had in common, he supposes. They hadn't really _wanted_ to go to frat parties at all; they wanted to get As. These days, they don't really _want_ to watch reality television; they want to know what they're talking about when they open their mouths at work.

Minutes later, and somehow - he hadn't even noticed her slip out - Elizabeth is behind him, and a glass of red wine seems to be appearing on his desk in front of him.

Henry looks up at her, silently conveying his thanks, and she just squeezes his shoulder, taking her own glass with her and settling down to work once more.

Henry follows suit, the smile still on his lips as he turns back to his paper.

—

 **10:51pm - 10:56pm**

She hears him coming into their bedroom and, having spent a solid ten minutes not sure _what_ to do, she finds herself calling out to him instinctively.

"Henry?"

She looks again at herself in the mirror. " _Oh_ , Henry," she repeats more quietly, almost as if to herself. "Jesus. This is _not_ good."

For his part, Henry hardly knows which far-off nation to jump to first. Syria. Russia. Iran. The list of places with the capacity to ruin his night with his wife faster than he could say "unprecedented international crisis" is endless.

"What's up?" he asks, coming into the bathroom, finding his question answered in a most unexpected way at the mere sight of Elizabeth.

"My hair." she says, sounding a little dazed, still unable to take her eyes off her own reflection. "Oh God, what did I do?"

Henry frowns, tilts his head a little to the side as though assessing the situation. It's hard to tell because her hair is wet, but it looks to him to be a brownish red color now. "I don't know, what _did_ you do?" he asks, sounding more curious than anything else.

"Well I was telling Stevie about my hair thing today, you know, how I had to cancel it?" Elizabeth explains. "And she was like "why don't you just do it yourself?" and she gave me this box and I figured "you know what, why _don't_ I just do it myself?" and…" she pauses, exhales a little in a helpless sort of fashion. "Well, I don't know what happened."

Henry shrugs.

"Maybe it was out of date?" Elizabeth suggests, turning once more to squint at her reflection. "I mean, can that happen with hair dye?"

Henry shrugs again. He's never really been a guy to speculate on matters about which he knows absolutely nothing, and Elizabeth's present enquiry falls pretty squarely into that category.

"It's fine," he replies, and if he's faking he's doing so very convincingly. "It's just, like, a little darker, that's all. Is that…not what you were going for?" he adds tentatively, unable to help the grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

"No!" Elizabeth protests, but she finds herself laughing a little too. Somehow, this whole crisis feels like less of a crisis already.

—

 **11:15pm - 11:20pm**

The hair looks a good amount lighter once it's blow dried, Elizabeth thinks - but still very, _very_ far from the honey-blonde woman pictured on the front of the box that Stevie had handed her.

"I'm going to kill our daughter," she tells Henry matter-of-factly as she crawls into bed beside him. He's sitting upright, a book in his lap and the TV on mute in the background. "I know she's our first born, and she's your favorite, but I'm sorry. It has to be done."

Henry blows right past the accusation of favoritism - that one's such an old gag at this point, there's no point in even trying to dispute it. "I understand." He says solemnly. "First thing tomorrow morning?"

"Probably, yeah," she replies casually, fussing with the pillows behind her. "I mean I was gonna do it tonight, but she's sleeping already and she's had a tough week with Russell so I figured…"

Henry smiles. "You're all heart."

Then, with a nod towards the TV, "I can't wait to hear about this on cable news. Honestly. " _Does the Secretary's new hair signify a darker turn for foreign policy?"_ he asks mockingly. _"What does this mean? Is her marriage in trouble?_ ""

She laughs, and he leans in to kiss her lips, working his way over her jawbone and down her neck.

"Mmm," she hums in contentment, tilting her head back for him. "I don't think my marriage is in trouble."

Henry smirks against her skin. "I don't think it is either."

He kisses his way back up until he lands on her smile, and their mouths move against one another's playfully. Moments later, almost subconsciously, Elizabeth reaches down with both hands to push his t-shirt up, her palms running along his warm skin as she goes. She breaks their kiss only to pull the fabric over his head, and they look at each other happily once he's disentangled.

"Actually" she tells him, interrupting the mood a little, "the blonde is going to be back by back tomorrow. Somebody's coming over to the house at 1pm to fix it."

Henry looks surprised. "How'd you swing that?"

"I…" she halts, as though trying to decide how much to admit to him. "I texted Blake and asked him to just, you know… arrange something," she confesses then sheepishly. "This is what he arranged. A guy named Andreas at 1pm. And," she cocks an eyebrow, "a shit ton of blonde hair dye I'm guessing."

"Well, if Blake picked him…" Henry responds, not even needing to fill in the rest of the thought.

"Right. That's what I figured, this guy's gotta be some sort of magician for hair. So anyway. Basically this is your last shot at having sex with a brunette… _ish_ woman."

"Oh, I see," is all Henry says, with a laugh, because he doesn't need to tell her that he will take her any way he can have her. He shows her instead, pulling her against him again, kissing her more hungrily this time, her lips insistent against hers, then his hands grasping at her breasts. She has no bra on under her tank top, and he rolls his thumbs across her nipples. There's a little strangled sound from the back of her throat that he feels before he hears, and when they break apart for air, he can see it in her eyes. Desire, unmasked.

"I love you," she says, and he can't imagine anything sexier than her voice in this second.

Some part of Henry's mind flashes back to the woman on the radio earlier - so serious and forthright, so absolutely focussed on her contribution to matters of massive global significance. The sure knowledge that he will make her whimper - make her _beg -_ before this night is out feels like the most amazing thing. Something just for him and her.

"You know," he says, leaning in towards the shell of her ear, nipping very gently at her earlobe, "I like you okay too."


End file.
